David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

Her dreams were confused and full of anxiety, and she awoke with a start. Suddenly she remembered where she had seen the man in the woods before. He was not one of Hektor’s men. She had noticed him as she had stood with Kassandra on the day Agamemnon arrived in Troy.

The man was a Mykene soldier.

Fearful now, she rose and went toward the main rooms. Perhaps they were assassins come to kill Hektor, not realizing he had remained at the palace. She needed to find Cheon and warn him.

As she neared the front of the house, she saw a red glow through the window. Pulling open the door, she saw old Vahusima and the two boys running toward a blazing barn. From within the building she heard the sounds of terrified horses and ran out to help them just as Cheon emerged from behind the house.

One of the boys suddenly stumbled and fell. Vahusima reached the doors of the stable and struggled to lift clear the locking bar. Then he cried out, and Andromache saw an arrow jutting from his back.

Dark figures came rushing from the shadows, swords in their hands.

The moon was perfectly round, its edge sharp as a knife, as the three companions made their way out of the twilight city.

They left by the East Gate and crossed the fortification ditch in the shadow of the great northeast bastion, then headed north. The way was easy, a gentle walk through rolling hills and meadows, and they traveled quickly. They carried with them all they possessed, for they did not expect to return. Kalliades had the sword of Argurios at his side. Banokles was carrying a small sack of provisions on his shoulder, including a heavy pottery jug that glugged a little as he walked. Piria, in her hooded cloak, carried only Andromache’s bow and quiver.

Her thoughts were in chaos, and the easy walk did nothing to calm them. Had she been still on Thera, she would have run on the black sandy beach or across the barren hilltops until her body hurt, exhaustion purging her fears for a little while. Or she would reach for Andromache, who could always calm the turmoil in her heart.

Yet now it was thoughts of Andromache that caused her fear. For the past season her only ambition had been to reach the woman she loved. Her entire will had been engaged in achieving that one goal. But now, at the end of her journey, she was overwhelmed with doubts.

What if Andromache no longer wanted her?

Her treacherous mind played out possible scenes. She saw Andromache standing at a farmhouse door, her face stern, her eyes cold. “What are you doing here?” she would ask. She would reply: “I have traveled across the Great Green to be with you.” Andromache would say, “That life is ended. You are not wanted here,” and the door would close firmly in her face.

She tried to recall the joyous scene she had nursed in her heart for so long: Andromache running into her arms, confessing she hated her husband, Hektor, begging Piria to take her away from Troy to a life of quiet bliss together in a small village overlooking the sea. But black doubts now assailed that pretty picture. How would you live in this village? they demanded. Raising goats, or sewing garments for peasants, or making bread? The pair had no such skills. Two princesses, hunted by their families and by the great powers of Troy and Thera, living unrecognized in a quiet country retreat? She knew now that it was impossible. So what would they do? The thought brought fresh despair, and she sighed.

“You seem troubled.”

Kalliades had dropped back to speak to her as Banokles strode ahead. She could find nothing to say. He did not press her, and they walked on in silence, following Banokles’ long moon shadow up a gentle hillside.

The two years she had spent on Thera with Andromache had been the only truly happy time she could recall. I should have stayed on the Blessed Isle, she thought, seeing again the farmhouse door closing on her and her dreams.

She realized that she had stopped walking and that the two men were looking at her curiously.

Her breathing was shallow, and she felt the beginnings of panic, a trembling in her hands, a tightness in her belly. They had reached the brow of a low hill, and ahead by the roadside she could see a small white shrine shining in the moonlight. Not wanting her companions to see her distress, she walked over to it. The bones of small creatures lay at its base, and the statue of a woman with a bow had been placed in an alcove.

The statue was of the huntress goddess Artemis, who despised men. On Thera there was a temple to her on the highest point of the island, a spur of limestone rock standing proud of the rest of the isle. She and Andromache had often climbed to that temple to walk the sun-drenched corridors and hear the wind whistle among the white columns. They both felt safe in the halls of the moon goddess, who welcomed men only as sacrifice.

Piria looked at the bow in her hand, feeling the leather grip smooth against her hand, just as it had nestled in Andromache’s hand perhaps days before.

There were many small offerings on the shrine: wooden figures of pregnant women carved without skill but with great care, bronze arrowheads, colored pebbles painted with images of the goddess, and many clay animals: deer, hounds, and quail.

“O Lady of the Wild Creatures,” she whispered, “I have nothing to give you.” She had only her shabby tunic and her sandals. She held the bow of Andromache and the dagger of Kalliades. She had nothing of her own. Even her blond hair she had hacked away.

She stood before the shrine with its offerings of wood and clay and bright bronze. “I have nothing to give. I have nothing to give,” she repeated.

Suddenly she took the knife from her belt and stepped toward the shrine, arm raised. “Accept my blood, moon goddess,” she whispered. “Accept this offering.” She felt a hand on her arm and spun around, eyes wide and angry.

Kalliades said gently, “Artemis does not seek the blood of women.”

“I have nothing else,” Piria said, tears flowing.

He stood for a moment, then slowly lifted his left palm toward her. She looked into his eyes, her brow furrowed.

“The goddess will accept my blood,” he said softly. She hesitated for just a moment, then made a small cut in the flesh of his hand. Moving to the shrine, he clenched his fist above the statue. Crimson drops splashed down, dark against the white stone. He moved back and glanced at Banokles.

Mystified, the big man looked from one to the other, then shrugged and stepped forward. Gently, Piria nicked the side of his left hand, and his blood joined that of Kalliades.

Piria spoke. “Artemis, virgin lady, moon goddess, I give you this offering of the blood of men. Give us your light in the darkness and bring us to our hearts’ desire.”

Suddenly the woods and fields around them were plunged into silence. The small breeze dropped, and all sounds—the rustle of leaves and bushes, the night noises of small creatures—suddenly ceased, as if the world were holding its breath. The moon seemed huge in the still, dark sky.

For the first time in days Piria’s heart calmed. She smiled at the two men. “Thank you,” she said. “I am ready now.”

Banokles cleared his throat and said gruffly, “If you find you are not welcome… well… you could always come with us, you know. With Kalliades and me. We are going south. To the mountains.”

Her vision misted, and she nodded her thanks to him, not trusting herself to speak. Kalliades leaned toward her. “Let us find your friend, and then you can decide where your road will lead.”

They returned to the road. As they approached the crest of the hill, Piria glanced at the two warriors beside her. A sense of peace and security, lost to her since she was twelve years old, flowed over her. She was with men whom she trusted and in whose company she felt safe.